#plokoonfic

Plo Koon x OC / Reader : Somewhere Only We Know

You kept your friendship with Plo and though your heart bleeds for him, as it beats only for him, you decide to yet again express your desire to act in spite and avenge your most favorite Kel Dor in the galaxy. Only to be reminded of something else. "Right Here" - Part II -> Depression strikes and you're at the medcenter.

Savage Opress x OC / Reader : Come Away With Me

Fic dedicated to a friend, @amorfista ♥ To endure is to be patient ; the unnerving circus of a concept that for him to be angry, for him to bestow upon you this carnal need of fury, he would first have to care about you.

[ρℓσ∂υ¢н] [ OCxPlo Koon Series] : єℓє¢тяι¢ ℓσνє

Fic dedicated to my Plo Koon bestie @saengak ♥ Chapter 1: The Invite <- <- <- Ziar Koon, Plo Koon's father, is hosting a celebratory gathering to commemorate the newly established hatchery as part of rebuilding Mother Dorin after a separatist attack a year ago. That said, Plo Koon is expected to be at the event and with you being the known closest to Plo, he is expected to have you by his hand during the ceremony.

ℓσνє, ι gυєѕѕ - ρℓσ кσσи χ σ¢/яєα∂єя [ w o r m ] | ρℓσ∂υ¢н

мσяиιиgѕ ωιтн ρℓσ кσσи - ρℓσ кσσи χ σ¢/яєα∂єя | ρℓσ∂υ¢н

αѕк!ρяσмρт: αℓтєяиαтινєѕ - ρℓσ кσσи χ тιмι∂!fєм!яєα∂єя

яєρєит ωιтн ∂σм!ρℓσ кσσи - αѕкρяσмρт - ∂σм!ρℓσ кσσи x яєα∂єя

ѕαтυяиιиє - ρℓσ кσσи χ fєм!яєα∂єя

You do so much day in day out that it has become a wonder if you exist only to appease the fury and bitterness that resides in the damned. A conundrum of a cycle wherein you have no qualms in allowing anyone of your borrowed time and yet it seems to be quite burdensome to rob others of theirs, regardless of how deep you have plunged into the great seas of woe. A quandary that leaves you doubtful if you even deserve to feel such sadness and allow it to consume you when you should be keeping your heart empty to nurse and rid others of the vicissitudes of fate. An enigma that though should have enticed you to unravel and explore, leaves you abandoned not with want, need, or wanton desires, but abandoned as the word itself defined — left alone and all its synonymous narrative; forgotten, maybe.

But it’s not that bad, right? You get to live, meet people, experience things old and new — and besides, someone out there has it far worse than you. You should be grateful. 

And so you become just that; "Grateful” — in every sense of the word.

You stopped ‘complaining’ because someone else has it far worse than you; stopped trying to ‘talk about it’ because you’re afraid to tell them that even after all the unprompted and unsolicited advice, you remain buried six-feet under the vicious weight of thoughts so intrusive you couldn’t bring yourself to cry it out of your system anymore —in hopes that it depletes you enough to fall asleep. 

That you stopped trying to ‘deal with it’ because it has come to the point that trepidation has now been rooted so deep within the confines of your soul, it hinders you to function. To have fear of having to be seen in such a pathetic, weakened state that even the most mundane tasks remain undone. That the mere fact that you haven’t showered or bathed in days because you were so afraid that if you’re not careful enough, you’d slip and die without having to tell someone how much they mean to you. 

That if you perish, as you begin to feel so deserving of such fate, you would leave them with the same conundrum. That, they, too, would have to suffer these intrusive thoughts because no one came; because they, too, were abandoned as the word itself defined — left alone and all its synonymous narrative; forgotten.

So yet again, you sit not with your knees enclosing your chest in an embrace like in the holovids — rather you’ve taken shelter under the dining table because it felt ‘safe’ there knowing that escape is but a kitchen knife away. Yet again you do not stand before the mirror contemplating on smashing it with your head or your fist, because you couldn’t bear the thought of having someone clean up the mess you’ve made. Yet again you do not frantically tap your fingers on the floor in fear that the neighbors might hear and complain and as such, you will all that you could muster to silence even the slightest of whimpers because you know someone would come and would have to sit through your ‘dramatics’.

And so yes, here you are in all the glory of one being ‘grateful’. 

Here you are under the table of your lavish living room with today’s breakfast at midnight, a pile of unwashed dishes, laundry on the ground, and your commlink buzzing incessantly that seems to stab your fingertips with each attempt of a response. So you just read them, the messages — the funny ones, the sad ones, the work-related ones, the ‘are-you-okay?’ ones, and the ones from your beloved friend and confidant who had constantly dropped by and threatened to break the door down, forcing you to reply ‘I’m not home, I’ll message you the soonest’.

But you are, as we have established. 

You pray to gods your people serve, even to ones you don’t and know not of; eyes closed with fingers knotted over your chest so tight that you could feel the in-between dips of your knuckles burrow further as if ready to break if not bruise. Your lips shake begging through a plethora of ‘please don’t’, ‘go away’, and ‘not today, please’, hoping that this does not turn into some heroic stride of having you swept off your feet and be given the ‘much needed’ respite and attention because today is simply not the day — as it was yesterday and the day before, and the day before the day before yesterday. 

You’ve gone this far, do you honestly wish to disappoint those who believe in you? Do you feel it wise to make them feel bad because their words of comfort and support failed? Do you feel they are deserving of your failure because you could not find it within you to handle even the simplest of things?

Exactly. They deserve better than that. And after all, someone out there has it far worse than you.

Right…?

***

“Is it the gown that’s throwing you off? Cause I can’t cut it up and make it look sexy and we can rolepla—”

You couldn’t even finish because he’s stared you down with such oppressive silence all you could think of was apologize for something you don’t even know you’ve done but whatever it is, it must have been as heinous as to exist in the same timeline as him.

“What?”

“...”

You knew exactly what — he no longer wants you around. He no longer wants to deal with your obstinacy and how you constantly pry him from more pressing matters over something so trivial, so dramatic, so unnecessary.

“Ugh, don’t tell me you’re gonna be baby about this, Plo.”

“...”

It’s exactly that. He’s supposed to be somewhere; a meeting maybe? A mission? Maybe he’s tired. Tired of you.

“Look. I’m okay. I just… I just have really nosey neighbors, okay? I’m fine. Please.”

“...”

“I’m really, really, really, okay. I promise you.”

“...”

I’m okay, baby. I am. I am now.

“Well?…. Say something.”

“...”

He’s upset, no — he’s angry. He’s… He’s…

And just as you have occasionally been exposed to the oppressive nature of his silence, you turn to him as if matching your assumptious claim of him plagued with seething abhorrence over having to ‘take care of you’ again. Your brows meet in brewing animosity, glaring vehemently at Plo — ironically in contrast to the relaxed creases of your Kel Dor Jedi.

“If you have somewhere to be, just leave. I don’t know why you’re here if you’re just gonna be like that.” You couldn’t pocket an obvious sniffle and so you opted to turn your head away towards the unsuspecting bouquet of flowers of pinks, whites, and yellow chrysanthemums. It did you no better as ragged breath fell past lips that quivered and silver-hazed eyes that threatened to become even more fuddled with tears.

“I get it, okay? They shouldn’t have called even if it was an emergen—.” 

They really shouldn’t have. I’m sorry if they had to call you. I promise I’ll try harder. I’ll be more grateful for what I have. I swear. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.

“But they did.” Came Plo Koon’s abrupt response, devoid of any obviously implied emotion — neither from the tone of his voice or the subtle shift in his masked visage. 

You knew better than to argue. After all, you were no stranger to how ornery he can be, that even his fallen master found him stubborn and difficult — for all the good reasons, that is.

“Sorry.” Was all you could say. 

For having known Plo for centuries, you would have thought that you’d get used to the power he held over you. That even mere words carry so much weight that he could say ‘love’ and wound you so deep to this very day, that him mirroring your candor with so much nectarous affection in the form of endearments ‘little love’ or ‘my darling’ disillusions you from the illusion itself. 

That just by the mere sound of his voice, that unspoken timbre reserved only for your ears and your ears alone, would have you whisked into the grandeur of a fool’s paradise. A quixotic ideal where war can go fuck itself just as Plo can go fuck himself too, but through means of using every inch of your existence leaving nothing to waste. That just by the mere serendipitous touch of his talon-clad fingers paired with his poorly crafted apology for inadvertently wrapping around your neck so deliciously tight, he could easily bring to your knees to do no more than worship him as you would a god to atone for the sins of subjecting those around you in yet another depressive episode.

It gave you a sense of grounding at the very least; a laughable means of coping you’ve developed over time. One that would put his mind at ease to know that in spite of the decline of mirth within your soul, you still had some reserve to keep yourself from the point of no return — even if it meant you were doing it for others, not so much yourself. 

You turn to face the still-standing Kel Dor whose hands remained tucked behind. Expressionless was better than him pacing frantically and mouthing off a full-on lecture. Though part of you expected to use this to his advantage; to go over how your last visit went and the lingering feeling of having professed indirectly required confrontation — then again, it wasn’t exactly the first time the two of you indulged in a very elusive discourse about matters of the heart. But at least you got to say it again, right? I mean not hearing it back is nothing new.

You hear him sigh, whether it was relief or frustration it hardly mattered. He was gonna chew you off you and you knew it. He’s probably at his wit’s end having to come to your rescue for what, the third time now in a month? You’ve already quit bounty hunting because Plo pulled the ‘I would rather you indulge my father in managing the hatchery in Dorin’ card. I mean who wouldn’t? You get to spend time with Dorin’s most charming Kel Dor, who has been quite-like a father to you with little knowledge that he’s about to become your father-in-law if Plo would just stop being a Jedi Master for a hot minute. That, and the fact that you get to help Dorin rebuild their population through the hatchery — not your more preferred method of helping since you’re pretty set on the fact that Plo is quite virile. 

Even wishful thinking of him has deterred you from your further decline even for the fleeting moment of his visit. As for how long it’ll last, the daunting possibility of how grave the next ‘episode’ would be, looms about.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” It was more of a statement than an inquiry. You knew he was upset just from the fact that he hadn't approached you yet or had spoken much. Not many knew how chatty Plo Koon can be or how mischievous or playful he truly is behind the ever well-behaved aristocratic demeanor. You lowered your as your teeth sank to the bottom of your lip apologetically as you continued. “I understand if you are. I’d be mad at me too.”

“Good. Then we can move forward.” Plo Koon replies, true to his no-attachment Jedi teachings that infuriated you more than anything. And he knew; he knew how to drive you so far up the wall, you sometimes wish he just would — drive you up the wall and impale you on some 13-inch goodness of Kel Dor dic— “Oof!” 

“Plo, what the fu—.!”

Plo Koon had very uncharacteristically whacked you with a miniature version of himself in the form of a plushie. Yes, your beloved three-hundred and eighty-four year-old Kel Dor childhood friend who makes you feel things that the Order would frown upon, has brought you the greatest gift that he could and could not give — himself.

“Oh, you are clever. Clever, clever, clever.” 

And just like that, he had completely flipped your mood in ways you had not anticipated. The ever-wise, patient, kind, and doting Jedi Master had struck again. He didn’t need to say anything to convey his unwavering presence in your life and how he’d continue to be there in ways you’d need him; be it an amicable  sense of support and an ear to ramble onto or the carnal sense of allowing you to peruse his entire existence in smutty stories in your head as long as they’d keep you occupied to leave no room for thoughts that he believed shouldn’t be there. He knew — knew you like the back of his own hand. 

“Though I must say I did not have the heart to have that made anatomically correct.”

With a dramatic and proud pause, Plo makes his way to sit beside you, pushing you quite forcefully to give him room on the bed. Leaning to rest his back against the same pile of fluffed pillows as his arm wandered around your waist, he made himself further comfortable by crossing his boots beside yours at the edge. A subtle clear of the throat had you leaning your temple onto his shoulder, chuckling amused as he continued his seemingly required narrative.

“I’m sure you’re quite aware of how it would be highly inappropriate to make it so.”

He made a gesture to measure the length of the Plo-plushie’s leg, extending quite a leap past it as if you didn’t know how impeccably well-endowed he is that you need a visual. “Then again, I get the feeling this little one will be subjected to being defiled in the most… intimate of ways with or without… a certain appendage.”

“Plo, you prude, old man. Just say it. Say ‘cock’. Say ‘cock’ right now and I swear on all things encompassing our centuries-old friendship I will cease all attempts of killing myself.”

Plo had never seen such sternness and determination in your eyes that you actually had him caught off-guard for once. Torn between addressing your suicidal thoughts and the fact that the proposed resolution is so ludicrous that he was actually considering it knowing how you operate. You’ve had this chase of making him purposely say filth as it gives you delight beyond comprehension to have the dignified and highly revered Jedi Master General succumb to such sinful treats. Not that he was above such things, but they weren’t exactly preferred in his vocabulary. 

“These… thoughts, my dear. Are they frequent?” It was enough to melt your heart among all the things Plo Koon. You’ve loved him for so long you’d let him stab you in the gut for fun — not that he’d do it, of course. Genuine concern etched over the creases of his face and the tenderness of his free hand caressing the back of yours that held the adorable toy. “Has something happe—.”

“Plo, I swear. Just say co—”

“Duche—”

“Plo.”

“Duch.”

“Just say—”

“Little love, please let’s tal—”

“Ep! Ep! Ep! We don’t say things like that in public.”

“Yes, we surely do not say things like that in public.”

The impasse called for silence. Lucky you, you had a little Plo-plushie to play with. You folded the plushie’s arms to cross over his chest, holding it down with one hand while the other pressed down over its forehead making it look disgruntled. “There we go. Now there’s two of you.”

“Indeed.” Plo Koon replies, taking the hint of your uneasiness and unwillingness to divulge the woes of your existence just yet. “Though I do not as such, little love.” He adds, reaching to adjust the split-legged plushie, into a more self-respecting fashion.

“You do not sit like that!” You replied incredulously. “Not with your —”

“But I do, my sweet. I do not, as you young ones call ‘mansplain’ in spite of being well endowed with a very large cock…—alorum behavior, which by the way is very much unlike me. I am but a humble Jedi with humble needs.”

The excitement in your eyes bloomed with laughter, shaking your head with a well-deserved slow-clap offered to the improper-elusive Kel Dor Jedi Master. He joins in the chorus of your blissful giggle with a hearty rumble of his own and a playfully pompous nod of acknowledgement of yet again another triumph. 

“By the stars, I love you.” You sigh, dreamily as you feel the light creep through the darkened veins of your soul — truly a Jedi’s work at play. “I just… I love you. I love you so much I can’t.. I can’t….”

But as quick as the light bore once more into the shadowy depths of depression, you began fanning yourself in an attempt to suppress an outpour. Your eyes welled up and you began gasping for air as you tried your very best to stifle the whimper than turned to disheartened groans of pain, until you had begun to cry so profusely, your body shook in a mix of incoherent emotions.

You mumbled in between tearful pleas of asking Plo to make “it” stop, to do something because it wasn’t what you wanted right now. You threw in painful lines in jest, innuendos and petty attempt to restart the banter, self-deprecating jokes and nostalgic references etched like core memories between the two of you in your younger years— the last thing you wanted was for your time with Plo to end on a bitter note knowing he’d have to leave soon. 

He held you tighter than what your knitted frames would allow, a little more and he’d have crushed you and as much  you knew within yourself you wanted nothing more than to be turned to dust by a certain Kel Dor’s embrace, your tears seem to be the undisputed victor. 

You felt the weight of his head over your crown, the scent of him filling your senses as you head your drenched face onto the side of his neck while your arms latched onto the toy, squeezing it in your own embrace. You wanted it so badly to be him, but you couldn’t bring it upon yourself to bestow him guilt of being limited in the gesture as to comply with the teachings of the Order. You wouldn’t dare put him in that predicament. And so you held the toy version of him imperviously close to you as if suffocating the poor little thing.

And then it happened. 

“I know it baby, i’ll be a star And then you’ll be all mine And they won’t be able to take you from me”

You have been a fan of Mimi Mirage for as long as you can remember. The day you saw a poster of her at a record shop, you were so drawn that you purchased all four of her albums and had it on repeat that at some point, you were sure Plo Koon fancied a song or two from one of the most played albums when he’d come over. He’d also taken upon this interest of yours to spoil you Mimi Mirage merch, using his connections to procure signed copies. Plo had also made it a point to frame them because it’ll wear less if unexposed — all for your benefit, of course.

“I’m gonna make this planet pink I don’t care what they think I’m gonna make this planet pink”

You started to laugh in between a now fully-developed hiccup from all the crying and hyperventilating. You sniffled, whimpered, giggled, and even sorted a little at how off-key and weird it sounded being sung by your beloved Kel Dor friend. He continued, straining to get the key right and endure the missing words with hums and guesses that had you laughing as your face remained nuzzled on the side of his neck.

“You’ll be mine”

He mouthed the words slower over the specified lyric, the spurs of his clawed hand drawing idle patterns over the small of your back while the other purchased your cheek with a thumb strumming sweetly over the corner of your lip. 

“I’ll take the risk”

You turned to receive a rather affectionate gaze, his thumb in a continuous stroke over the fullness of your lips from corner to corner. The weight of him heavy over your own forehead; turning, tossing, seeking that perfect angle for you to feel the contrast of the cold, stannic mask and warmth of the little exposed skin on his face. You could feel the protective lenses over his eyes push against the bone of your brow until he found that perfect spot to nest half of his face onto half of yours. 

Your lips curve into a smile, then parted to utter more serene titter as you hear that luxuriously rare, short, single-syllabled chuckle of his that made you just wanna bear ninety-nine of his babies. But unfortunately, this little space-face-press shenanigans would pardon him from depriving her auditory needs to hear more of Mimi Mirage’s Planet Pink butchered by an esteemed member of the council, General of the 104th Battalion, and Jedi Master of great tenure and importance.

“Sing, old man.”

You whined with a pout — to which you then blushed from Plo Koon’s response of pushing the tip of his thumb between your parted mouth to shut you up. After all, you asked him to sing and you best listen. With a sigh of defeat and amusement in one, he dipped his thumb further enough to feel an earnest tongue brush onto the pad of his digit. 

You hear an evenly rare grunt that had you bite your lip as if to savor the fleeting touch that descended excruciatingly slow down your chin and delicately along the column of your throat.

Flustered beyond recognition, you feel the heat pool between your legs as his tone takes a chasmic turn. Spurs slithered along the expanse of your neck until he had collared his hold around you with a verily gentle and mindful squeeze. The gesture merited an sultry groan of approval and encouragement, accompanied by an elevated hissing sound from your smaller frame.

“Must I say the words, little love?”

You were too intoxicated to respond that all you could was a well-surrendered hum. 

“I….” 

In spite of the nearly losing all inhibition with the faintest of force applied over your neck, you draw your sight back as if to peer through the decorative holes of his protective eye-wear and gaze upon the windows of his soul. Your heart quickened further, anticipation built on the very hill you’ve silently swore to die on for this make or break turn of events. 

Has the day come for him to finally say it? 

You whispered the very words you’ve often given him, the endless ‘I love you’s’ that were often replied with “I knows” and “thank yous”. Days when you’d want to wring his neck or stuff him inside your pocket and whisk him away from the Order — days unlike today where he knew exactly what to say to make it all better. To make all the pain go away and allow herself to redemption to start anew. Today, he said the words… to Mimi Mirage’s Pink Planet in the perfect key and timing.

“I wanna be your dream girl I’m gonna be your dream girl”

Plo distangles himself from you, his hand cupping his antiox mask with a hearty laugh before rubbing his temples and taking a seat on the couch beside the bed. 

Nothing in this world would have made you feel better and would have rid you of the storm that brewed in your apartment for weeks than to hear your favorite three-hundred and eighty-four year-old Kel Dor Jedi utter the words “I wanna be your dream girl, I’m gonna be your dream girl.”

The room was soon an echo of you laughing so hard you wept a little. Then complained that your cheeks stung and that your stomach felt knotted from having to crease up. You’ve also boldly asked him to sing more of it — of which he politely declined, responding of talks of copyright and apprehension in jest.

As you simmer down and the minutes turn to hours of light conversation, you sigh and ready yourself for a nap. It had been such an exhausting week and with sleep finally blessing her with attendance, she turned to his side and momentarily watched him in his meditative state. With a yawn and a kiss to the little one (Plo-plushie), your eyes grow heavy.

Part of you wanted to wake him up and confess what it was that had gotten you down this rabbit hole of misery, paranoia, anxiety, and immense sadness, but you weren’t his burden to  bear. You weren’t anyone’s burden to bear. 

Your eyes finally submit, once more enveloped in darkness as your voice fades to a whisper. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I just don’t know where home is anymore, Plo. I don’t know where you are in my life anymore either. But you don’t have to know that…” 

Unbeknownst to you, Plo knew exactly what the answer was. 

And just as you have drifted to the land of dreams, his hand hovers over yours, light enough to touch but never wake you. 

“Right here.” He says.

“Right here.”

You might as well just step off the ramp right now and float aimlessly in space to mirror the emptiness you bring to the galaxy with your pathetic existence, right? Might as well just step into the sun and at least allow yourself to be a source of kindling that may burn brighter and serve hope to the fallen like yourself. Might as well —

“Might I interest you in a little distraction, little one?”

Plo Koon, in his towering frame that was both intimidating and of a soothing presence, had placed his talon-clad hand over your shoulder; a gentle squeeze to merit your attention as you turn and immediately lower your head with irises shaken in search of words to offer your most-sincerest apologies for having brought the incorrect package.

“I’m… I’m sorry, sir.” Even your apology was barely acceptable by your standards that you felt even smaller. So small that you were a rough estimate of twenty-nine seconds away from welling up for failing so miserably these past few days. It has deterred your morning routines of self-affirmation knowing fully that you are only to fail once more — and you have indeed yet again. You weren’t much of a talker either; you were that of a shy nature, timid on all accounts.

You hear a soft thud and wince — not that you were hurt or anything, but you were so easily frightened when it comes to failure, thinking he would have struck you or at least commanded a trooper to escort you out of the premises and off to the uncertainties of life. 

But no, it clearly wasn’t that at all.

As you gaze up to inspect the sound, you see Plo Koon holding a metallic bat made of scraps, worn of usage with blurred writings and the Wolfpack’s insignia drawn on different angles including the signage on the 104th’s ships, Plo’s Bros.

You watch his wrist turn and swing the bat lightly, testing it with a firm grip at the hilt. 

“When in training…” He began, pausing dramatically like the true, theatrical Baran Do Sage that he is apart from being a Master Jedi. “... the only failure is not to learn from your defeats.” 

Before you could ask, you see him turn, grasp the hilt of the bat with both hands, swing as one refurbished datapad flew over his head and met the bat with such precision that it was out in the vastness of space in less than a second. 

“Nice shot, General.” 

Your eyes were drawn promptly to Boost who offered a cheerful greeting and a wink, tossing another broken datapad in his hand ready to putt. Comet and Warthog beside him holding a singular digit of 1 and 0 in solidarity, while Sinker rummaged through the box of unusable datapads you’ve carried.

Plo turns to you and extends his hand, guiding and insisting you take the plunge. 

“Your turn, sweetness.” You hear Sinker from behind you, ushering you towards their beloved General who then welcomed you with a rather secure hold as he positioned himself behind. 

You feel the warmth of his palm enveloping the back of your hand in contrast to the stannic bat that latched on your grip. He guides your other hand to firmly take hold before leaning over your shoulder.

“Remember, my dear, you always pass failure on your way to success.”

With that, Plo steps a mindful distance and turns to Boost with a nod. “Consider this your official initiation to the 104th.”

And right before the turn of events fruition, you hear yet another voice approaching. 

“Ah, Commander Wolffe. How good of you to join us.” Says Plo Koon.

“General. Boys.” Wolffe replies in his stern and gruff note. “You do realize that I have to file a report on this.”

In fear, you turn to Plo whose brow creases were far from being tensed let alone bothered. He turns to Wolffe and motions for Boost to ready his aim. 

Wolffe sighs in both an exasperated and amused manner, arms tucked behind his back as he turns heel and bid farewell. “You best make that shot or you’re off this ship, miss.”

“You heard the commander. I believe in you, little one. Make your mark.”

And indeed you have —with a newfound determination and a steady grip, you’ve allowed yourself to not only trust in the Force, your new comrades, your new General, and your new role, but have also found it within you to trust the most important aspect of existence;

♥̷ ̷Y̷ ̷O̷ ̷U̷ ̷R̷ ̷S̷ ̷E̷ ̷L̷ ̷F̷ ̷♥̷

Welcome aboard the Triumphant, little love ♥ Where PloHours and 104th Foolishness is operational 24/7. I hope you enjoy this and that this was is at least a little close to your ask because oh-my-god, did I have to Google so much meaning equivalents of ‘timid’.

“Please tell me this is not about yesterday’s discourse.”

And it was indeed about yesterday’s discourse that you’ve found yourself feeling ‘severed from cromulency’ as he had eloquently stated. It would have been apropos to succumb into ‘a mood’ had ‘cromulency’ actually existed in the books, but a play on linguistics to lighten the mood is so very and innately Plo Koon that any attempt to sour yourself failed. 

You’ve known for centuries that behind the rebreather and the goggles, he was so damn—well proud of that joke that the creases on his face were a compound of both tense and lax. He didn’t laugh, but the very overture of his symphonic voice laced with an effervescent tune was enough to give it away. 

Oh, and the elbow nudge that was always quite comical even for himself. He’s expressed his dislike towards it; how very not-Plo Koon it is for him to do and yet, here he is — nudging his elbow onto your side as if silently egging you to burst into a fit of laughter.

You would’ve — of course with all the love you hold for him and him alone, but today was the day of fuck-all because he should’ve answered it correctly. 

“It’s still me but like… In a teeny, tiny, worm’s body.” Came your bone of contention. “You know what? Okay. Okay. Okay. What if I was clean? Like lab-grown clean, hmm? Not some slimy, under-bedrock worm in dirt.” You shuddered at the thought; to be covered in filth? Death would be more promising.

“You could also just be as you are now, little love.” 

Plo emerges from the quaint room adjacent to the bed in a rarity of blue. Cerulean tunic-like robes that pooled and dragged as he walked with the grace of a true Baran Do Sage about to zap the living daylights out of a runaway thief in Dorin. Trotting like a majestic, seasoned, stallion with absolute panic in his eyes as he turns to realize that you have still not donned your custom rebreather while Dorin gas heavily permeated the air-tight quarters.

“But why not though?!” You bleated, brows congregating in complaint as Plo settles on the bed where you’ve made yourself quite comfortably sat. 

For someone as fearsome as him, having even merited high reverence from the likes of the Grand Master himself, Yoda, and a few adversaries he’d have either done battle with or have known of his prowess, Plo had never once cut you with his talons or held you in such a manner threatening to the pristine state of your skin that bruised even at the slightest of bumps. In fact, the custom rebreather has a higher chance of leaving darkened welts under the grove of the mask than Plo’s talons with how it would lock onto your skin since your anatomy provides little to attach it to. 

You watched him arduously detach and reattach the mask over your face until it was canted enough to situate over the lower chambers of your face. He’d veer his head periodically as if to address you in silence, asking if there were any discomfort in process of — to which you responded with soft ‘Nhn’.

Placated by the fact that you are now masked as he was, Plo takes his place beside you on the shared cot, draping both your legs under the covers. With a datapad in hand and his claws tapping and gliding over the screen, he pulls up a schematic of the rebreather that now clung to your face. 

His talons lingered for a moment and you swore on all things of great value to your existence, that he smiled a little too dotingly at the fact that you’ve actually done well in crafting one for yourself. It’d be an understatement to say that he even caressed the screen with such a delicate touch before closing the tab to pull up something in relation to the GAR. 

Plo had not given any comments about it, even upon close inspection that you’ve matched your self-made antiox mask against Dorin gas in the same pattern as his — his lineage, his family, his ancestors of Koons. You’d think you’d have room within your soul to wonder if your self-made rebreather is Kel Dor - approved, or at least Plo Koon - approved, but you knew it was. It probably isn’t as durable as Plo’s, but the gesture alone speaks volume — or at least that’s what you could come up with each time he’d get a chance to hold it. He’d do so with so much care that part of you believed it was shit to begin with that it’d crumble between his large hands.

At times he’d remind you to clean it, not that he needed to. He’d talk about certain parts of the rebreather native to himself at random as if dropping hints on how to further upgrade your own mask without overstepping as you have ‘vehemently’ insisted that this was your personal project to perfect. Even so, you appreciate every obvious hint that included a hand-written note on where to find it, tucked in pockets of your clothing.

“That’s just mean, Plo.” Huffing as you folded yourself onto the bed, back turned as you hauled the covers over your frame angrily. You began grumbling, only to squirm under the weight of his touch along the contours of your side and defensively toss yourself away. 

“Why must you always torment yourself with queries you already know the answers to?” Resigned, Plo leaned firmly against the headboard and left the datapad idle over his lap. “Are we not past that at this point, my sweet?” 

You continue to grumble under your breath, rolling your eyes even and standing on a defiant ground —taking a moment before your cheeks have turned to cerise hue.  

“It’s a thing that you’re supposed to ask someone… y…you like.” And before Plo could put a word in, you pulled the magazine from under the bed and showed him the marked page of two earthling lovers and their 1000 questions of professed love.

“My darling, what we have is not something undercut as ‘like’. Am I loved less today than yesterday?” 

You wanted badly to say ‘yes’ to that for the sake of banter, but the genuine worry in his voice reminded of the peculiar situation that you and Plo have; a not-quite lovers, not-quite exclusive, not-quite looking for someone else, and not-quite permitted but somehow accepted kind of setup. Evenly perturbed that he might take it to heart, you thought well of your next response — the make or break of all responses. 

And with a steady heart determined to not only preserve love that transcends beyond realms of tradition and normalcy, unbridled by any word of law or doctrine, you scour the depths of your existence to offer yourself in complete surrender — to bear him words that would solidify the unbreakable connection that spanned the entirety of your respective lives. 

“Yes. You are loved less today than yesterday.” And so you speak, now propped on your elbows.

“Quite a dilemma.” Replied the ever-resigned Plo Koon, gaze scanning the contents of the magazine and nodding curiously before turning back to his datapad. 

Sensing your disappointment as you slowly lowered the magazine and dropped it onto the floor by your side of the bed, Plo turned his head to address your tantrum-stricken visage with a palm that had engulfed the entirety of your face. 

You utter a lengthy whine with apologetic and impatient undertones that did very little to deter him from having his attention drawn once more to the device. 

“So you really won’t love me if I was a worm, then?” 

You’ve started to take this little game of ribbing to heart given that you’ve had a long day and sometimes, all you need is for Plo to be a little less unhinged on the proper side and more clement to silly whims of the heart.

You hear a daunted sigh as the massive hand of your beloved Kel Dor retracts to his person; as if you were so much in the wrong you’ve upset Plo Koon to a degree that is most unfavorable for you both.

“My little wonder, just as I would tread the path of the Jedi once more in another life, I would not indulge in the slightest of change, for it is that consistency and restraint that had led our courses to cross. It is that same resilience to the unearthly call of pleasure and attachment that has allowed me to not only bear my heart and soul to you, my sweet, but to shake the very core of my devotion for the Order and its teachings. I do not just ‘like’ or ‘love’ you, my precious one — I simply am one that is yours as I am in the Force. I can only hope that is more than enough.”

Plo takes your hand into his with an attempt to reassure your worries with a gentle squeeze. And even behind the protective goggles, you knew within you that those silver eyes of his bore so much gratitude for not only the presence of your company, but the existence of you in his life as he would often remind you of.

You smile, reaching up to his face with a freehand, tracing the intricacies of the metallic contraption that sustained his life outside Mother Dorin’s familiar embrace. And in that moment with such tenderness in your voice, you simply could not help yourself but bestow upon him the honesty that burns with your heart — and you so you speak.

“So you would still love me if I was worm, Plo?”

And with unmatchable enthusiasm, he replies.

“No. I will most certainly not.”

~ Fin